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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27162460">Respite</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror'>voiceless_terror</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>TMA Whumptober [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Carrying, Day 23: Exhaustion, Gen, Jonathan Sims is a Tired Boy Please Let Him Sleep, M/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, Spans from Pre-Canon to Season Four, Tiny Bit of Jon/Martin Pining, Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:15:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,755</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27162460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Archiving is hard work, but someone's got to do it.</p><p>Or, five people who caught Jonathan Sims sleeping on the job.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>TMA Whumptober [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952800</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>244</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Respite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Alright Jon, I think I’m going to head out-<em>oh</em>.”<b><br/>
</b></p><p> </p><p>Sasha had been gone for five minutes, tops. And yet here was Jonathan Sims, fast asleep in his chair and using her messenger bag as a pillow. And snoring.</p><p> </p><p>They worked late into the night on some hunch Jon had - once he got on a research kick, there was no stopping him. Sasha wasn’t much better. They encouraged the worst in each other sometimes, but that’s how they got their sterling reputations as researchers. So this was not an unfamiliar scene.</p><p> </p><p>But it was ten at night and Sasha had been looking forward to finally getting home, putting her feet up and knocking back a glass of wine or two. They had hit a dead end and wouldn’t be able to continue until tomorrow, anyway. Jon had begrudgingly agreed and she popped over to the bathroom only to return to...this. </p><p> </p><p>It couldn’t be comfortable. Her bag was covered in buttons and pins, some particularly pointy. It wasn’t exactly clean either; it had been thrown on one too many questionable surfaces in the past few months. But Jon seemed comfortable, if his open mouth and the tiny bit of drool currently on the front pouch were anything to go by. <em>Gross.</em></p><p> </p><p>She contemplated waking him up. He would want to head home soon as well, the trains became entirely unpredictable the later it got and they boarded at the same station. But something stopped her. Maybe it was the dark shadows under his eyes, the small, wheezing breaths. The way his brow slightly furrowed even in sleep. The crankiness that increased as the week went on. If anyone deserved a quick rest, it was him. </p><p> </p><p>Sasha had been in the job for three years before Jon came on. She cut her teeth in Artefact Storage for the first six months- initially she’d been excited to delve into the dangerous and mysterious objects they had on site, but that excitement quickly faded into dread after a week on the job. She got the first transfer out into research, much more her speed. She was steadily making her way up the ladder and was now trusted to train new hires and interns. Ergo, Jon.</p><p> </p><p>When she first met him, she honestly thought he wouldn’t make it far. He was fresh out of college, twitchy and short-tempered with an intermittent stutter. She didn’t fault him for that of course, but that didn’t save him from the judgment of others. No one wanted to get within a mile of him until Sasha volunteered her services in a rare moment of pity. His hand was dry and shook in hers when they were introduced; he was clearly not used to touch, though surely he must have shaken many a hand by now. </p><p> </p><p>Sasha was good at teaching, though she wasn’t very interested in it. “You should teach!” so many of her friends and family members said. Sasha hated being told what to do even more than she hated teaching.</p><p> </p><p>Jon was a difficult student. He had constant questions that Sasha patiently answered. He did not take criticism well, once getting up and walking away for an hour after Sasha fixed his grammar. He couldn’t seem to focus, which was not at all promising in a career that demanded it. Still, she worked with him as a sort of pet project. If she could make a functioning researcher out of Jon, she could prove herself worthy of respect and perhaps a promotion or two herself. So she figured out how Jon ticked- what worked for him and what didn’t. It took some hard work but Jon opened up bit by bit, giving her more insight into the person he was. And he wasn’t all that bad, once you got past the prickly exterior. He was whip-smart with a dry, clever humor that Sasha could appreciate. When he got on the trail of something interesting, he followed it to the end with a dogged determination. Sasha found herself opening up in turn, talking to him about her past jobs in academia and her frustrations with the Institute. They had a lot in common, it turned out. Both were academics at their core, finding debate and discussion endlessly entertaining. They both had a soft spot for nice wine and greasy pub food. And they were both constantly underestimated and overlooked- Sasha, as a woman in her field with a tendency towards “aggressive behavior” which in any man would just be called confidence and expertise, Jon with his inability to read social situations, the stutter in his voice that undermined his points, and the painful earnestness in every word he said, no matter how pointed. So yes, they got on. He made her laugh. That was hard to do these days. </p><p> </p><p><em>Five more minutes,</em> she promised, sitting back down at the table with a fond look to her companion. Thirty minutes later she woke him up, smiling at his panicked embarrassment and laughing in exhilaration as they ran to the station, just barely making the last train.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>What does Elias think he’s playing at, putting this poor young man in charge of the Archives?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rosie had worked at the Magnus Institute for two decades and had seen many a manager come and go. She was Elias’s first and only secretary, coming in a bright-eyed young girl and now a tired, disillusioned woman firmly in middle age. You see a lot of things at the Institute. Sometimes you have to turn a blind eye.</p><p> </p><p>When Gertrude Robinson went missing, Elias handled the situation with a bizarre aloofness that Rosie felt no need to question. Questioning things got you in trouble around here. But when he told Rosie of his plans for Jonathan Sims, she had to stop herself from scoffing. She had seen the way Elias spoke to him, mentoring him in a way he never had with any other employee. Perhaps he just had a fondness for the boy, though she wasn’t sure what he had done to earn it. Jon never got used to Elias’s presence, constantly jumping at a hand on his shoulder and laughing nervously through any of their conversations. It would be endearing if it wasn’t so pitiful.</p><p> </p><p>But to make him Head Archivist? The man had only been here four years, there were plenty of other researchers and staff members who had not only seniority but the credentials to match. Jonathan Sims had an Oxford pedigree, impressive to be sure, but in Literature and History. It didn’t help that he seemed one missing file away from a nervous breakdown at all times. And they were going to give him an entire department to manage? A department that was in shambles and hadn’t been properly handled in the last fifty or so years? <em>Good luck, kiddo.</em></p><p> </p><p>She had been a little short with him the day he took the position- she had a monster of a headache and he wasn’t exactly making it easy on her, what with his questions about Gertrude and his ridiculous little proclamations of “I don’t believe in ghosts!” But the sincere gratitude in his voice as he told her to thank Elias for the opportunity came back to her hours later. <em>You have no idea what you’re in for.</em> It seemed almost sadistic to put a man like that in charge of the Archives.</p><p> </p><p>The situation never seemed to improve. From what little she saw of him in the hallways, he always looked haggard and on edge. When he stood in front of Elias’s door waiting to be let in for another meeting (Elias had been scheduling a lot of them as of late), his hands fidgeted and his feet shuffled. She felt bad for him, when she remembered to. She had twenty years to get used to Elias, but he seemed to get worse with every visit to his office.</p><p> </p><p>It was with a reluctant sigh that she took the paperwork from Elias and headed down to the Archives. <em>Just a few things that slipped my mind on the last visit, so sorry Rosie.</em> It was the end of the day and she was punctual to a fault, meaning she very rarely stayed past five unless Elias requested it. Even the Archives were empty- the assistants had all filtered out earlier and her footsteps echoed in silence as she made her way to the Head Archivist’s office.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Sims?” she called, immediately regretting the choice of name. It sounded unnatural coming out of her mouth. “Jon, are you in there?” There was no one in his desk chair, though his bag and coat were still accounted for. She was not about to do a scavenger hunt through the Archives, the place gave her the creeps and it got worse with each passing minute. She contemplated just leaving them on his desk when she saw a half-opened door labeled “Document Storage.” <em>I’ll just peek in, can’t hurt. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Jon?” she called again, creaking open the door and peering inside. It was not very well-lit; half of the lights were flickering like something out of a horror film. No one answered her. “Jon, if you’re here I have a few papers for you to sign. I’ll just leave them on your desk-” It was then she noticed a cot in the corner.<em> That’s not allowed, </em>she thought testily. It was rumpled- somebody had used it recently, she deduced. And then she looked down to the floor to find one leg sticking out from under the cot. She shrieked, grabbing at her chest as she slowly made her way over, unsure of whether she was about to die or if she had to call an ambulance. </p><p> </p><p>She kneeled down gingerly, her legs trembling as she found one Jonathan Sims entangled with a small, tattered blanket and snoring softly, completely lost to the world. She sighed in relief and no small amount of irritation- the man had just taken about three years off her life, at least. And what was he doing under the cot? <em>Such a strange thing, that Jonathan Sims.</em></p><p> </p><p>She reached out and grabbed his arm, giving it a good shake. “Jon!” He kept right on sleeping, completely ignorant to her entreaties. She gave him another, harder shake- nothing. This is ridiculous. She leaned in closer and opened her mouth to give one last deafening shriek of his name. “Jon!”</p><p> </p><p>That did the trick. Too well, one might say.</p><p> </p><p>Jon immediately sat up, which wasn’t a good idea- he only had a few inches of room left under the bed and ended up slamming his head against the metal rungs and leaning back down with a cry. “Agh!” he squeezed his eyes shut as she reached out her hand in apology.</p><p> </p><p>“God, I’m so sorry,” she babbled, patting his arm. “It’s just, you weren’t waking up and- are you alright?” His silence was worrying. <em>Oh God, Elias is going to murder me if I’ve killed his Archivist.</em></p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” he hissed, awkwardly sliding out from under the bed in a sort of shimmying motion and rubbing at his forehead. Luckily he hadn’t broken any skin, it was just red at the point of impact. “What on earth- ah, Rosie!” The instant switch in tone as his eyes focused on her form would be amusing in any other situation. “So sorry, d-did Elias need anything from me?”</p><p> </p><p>She paused, considering the man in front of her. He looked bad, really bad, like call-the-doctor-bad. Thinner than ever with dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t had a good nights’ sleep in weeks, if ever. And that look in his eyes, the change in his voice as soon as he noticed her- Elias had sway even through proxy. Suddenly Mr. Sims was all eager-to-please, as if he hadn’t just been caught collapsed under a bed in sheer exhaustion.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing under there?” is what she asked, though she did not mean to. She wasn’t really supposed to care about anyone in the institute and she’d done a good job of it thus far. But something about this situation felt off, even to her. </p><p> </p><p>He ran a hand through messy hair <em>(he’s going gray so young)</em> and gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Ah, just a- I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.” He made no attempt to explain his odd choice of napping area. “If you could please not tell Elias-”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” she assured, again strangely protective of the silly little man in front of her. “Think nothing of it- just need you to sign a few papers, is all.” She got up to allow him room to move, ignoring the creaking of limbs far too young to sound so bad. “Should probably use the bed next time, dear. That floor’s got to be horrible on your back.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon blushed, grabbing at the papers and looking anywhere but her eyes. “Yes, well,” he shifted his feet, gesturing at the tattered blanket he had extracted himself from. “I’ve got that, so it’s fine.”</p><p> </p><p>She fixed him with a dubious stare, but let him have this one. He headed back to his office to grab a pen, limping in obvious pain. The papers were signed and they said their goodbyes, Rosie heading home and Jon heading back to Document Storage, whether to sleep or work she couldn’t tell.</p><p> </p><p>In her next round of discretionary spending, she ordered a few pillows and a nice knitted throw for the Archives. The break room had been looking a bit drab, it deserved a little sprucing up.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Mr. Stoker, if you could come get your Archivist I’d be much obliged.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m on it, Janice.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim sighed. Just another Wednesday night at the Magnus Institute.</p><p> </p><p>Jon was running them ragged with investigations, following up on every statement he deemed ‘unsatisfactory’ in terms of research. So far, he had deemed almost every statement as so. It was not very fun. </p><p> </p><p>Tim had taken pains to finish his research bright and early, wanting to get home as quickly as possible and finish up the series he’d been binging. This plan included the added plus of avoiding the worms that had been showing up outside the institute over the past couple of days. But then Jon had come out of his office, looking sad and lost as he handed over another statement for Tim to work on. “Tomorrow is fine, Tim,” Jon said, in an uncharacteristic show of generosity. “No need to worry.” Tim was worried now, for an entirely different reason. </p><p> </p><p>He promised himself he would only stay an extra hour, just to make sure Jon got home alright. That was two hours ago. Jon had apparently snuck out to the library without him noticing, and now needed to be fetched for reasons Tim was pretty sure he could guess at.</p><p> </p><p>Jon was never really on good terms with the librarians. What he lacked in charm, he did not make up for in well, anything really. He got upset when a book was in the wrong place; he was very short whenever something would take longer than a few minutes. He constantly hid from the librarians when it was time to close- one night he was quite literally chased out by Janice, and another night he was locked in (also by Janice) and didn’t even notice.</p><p> </p><p>So finding him tucked in between two bookshelves fast asleep was not surprising in the least. It didn’t look comfortable but Jon seemed fairly relaxed, crammed as he was. This had happened more than a few times back in research but never recently. And never was he quite so hidden away, not even a limb giving away his position. He knew Jon liked his small spaces, but even this was pushing it. Janice hadn’t attempted to wake him, knowing what a fools errand it would be. “That boy could sleep through the end of days, I reckon,” she said as she opened the door for Tim and ushered him down the aisles. “I don’t know how he does it.”</p><p> </p><p>“That makes two of us,” Tim mumbled as he crouched down in front of the man he previously called a friend and now a boss. “Jon? You up, mate?”</p><p> </p><p>No response. Typical. Tim could keep this going for the rest of the night, or he could take matters into his own hands. </p><p> </p><p>Let it never be said that Tim wasn’t hands-on.</p><p> </p><p>He managed to maneuver Jon into his arms without waking the man, a feat he’d perfected over the years. Jon, for his part, just slumped into his chest and muttered some nonsense under his breath that Tim couldn’t make out. Jon was a fairly vocal sleep-talker, something he found endlessly amusing. This situation was anything but amusing, however, and he could barely summon up a smile to give Janice as he carted his boss back down to the Archives.</p><p> </p><p>Jon was falling back into old habits. He was becoming distant and moody, snapping at any inquiry about his health or well-being. It took all of Tim’s strength not to snap back at times. Sasha helped keep him in check, giving him warning glances whenever she believed he went too far, which was happening more and more often. He was afraid for the frail man in his arms. He had a strange sense of impending calamity that woke him up in the middle of the night, heart racing like it did after his encounter with the circus. It awoke a strange, primal fear inside of him that Tim couldn’t control and it crept in more and more by the day. </p><p> </p><p>Even when Jon was safe and comfortable, tucked neatly into the cot in Document Storage, the fear didn’t ease. He wanted to stay and keep watch, though that didn’t make much sense. The Archives were probably the safest place to be. Nothing could reach them in this dank, dusty prison cell of a workplace. Not even Prentiss. But he was tired, so he decided to leave Jon to his dreams and chew him out tomorrow morning. Now wasn’t the time.</p><p> </p><p>He took a quick detour to his desk and back to Document Storage before he left, throwing one of his cardigans over Jon’s sleeping form. <em>Just in case he gets cold,</em> he reasoned. In reality, he didn’t know who it was actually for- Jon or himself. Maybe both.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>This is ridiculous.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Initially, he had been happy and slightly proud to see his Archivist stumbling back into work, bleeding and freshly marked by the Corruption. He of course told him the opposite, encouraging him to take all the time available to him to recover. But his Archivist was nothing if not stubborn, and watching him limp about the Archives, paranoid and afraid, was a wonder to behold. </p><p> </p><p>Today, however, might not have been the best time to come back.</p><p> </p><p>The Magnus Institute, on paper, had a fully functioning HR department. That this HR department only included one incredibly overworked woman who was willing to let many things slide in order to collect a paycheck was no matter. They still had to observe the basic requirements that came along with it, and that included having mandatory yearly training in things such as workplace harassment. The modern workplace truly was a marvel - as if anyone willing to commit these acts would be cowed by one seminar. </p><p> </p><p>But here they were on a Thursday afternoon, every supervisor gathered in the conference room to undergo ‘mandatory training’ in sensitive subject matters. The training wasn’t actually training at all but an instructional video of about thirty minutes. It was quite literally the least they could do- Elias wasn’t about to go wasting precious money on hiring more professionals to help them avoid inappropriate conduct. That’s what lawyers were for, after all.</p><p> </p><p>Jon had stumbled in once the video had already begun, looking bedraggled and worse for wear. The only seat left was in the back, conveniently located right next to Elias. He gave his Archivist a short nod and glanced back at the screen with a bored detachment, watching from another pair of judging eyes as Jon stumbled and struggled his way around his colleagues, murmuring apologies.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t acknowledge Jon’s greeting, preferring instead to keep him at a distance. He didn’t want him to get too comfortable with him, not at this early stage. But he still noted the exhaustion in his features with some concern- he did need him semi-functioning, how else would they get any statements recorded?</p><p> </p><p>Jon managed valiantly to stay awake for the first ten minutes before he started to nod off, his head jerking backwards in a sad attempt at consciousness. Elias rolled his eyes, clearing his throat several times in an effort to keep him awake. He didn’t much care for Jon’s dignity, but it was rather embarrassing for him to have an Archivist who couldn’t stay awake for a mere thirty minutes once the lights were down. </p><p> </p><p>But then it started to veer into dangerous territory. Jon was slumping down further and further in his seat, each jerk awake more distracting than the last. Elias would ask him to leave if he didn’t think he would collapse on his way out the door and cause even more of a commotion. No, it would be fine to let him sleep if his head wasn’t constantly listing to the left, further and further and- <em>Christ.</em></p><p> </p><p>Jon’s head found purchase on his shoulder and there he remained, finally content to doze in peace.</p><p> </p><p>They were tucked far enough in the corner that nobody could really see unless they strained their eyes. Everyone else was either watching the video or falling asleep themselves. Elias considered his options- he could wake the man, knowing the force required to do so would only cause a scene, or he could let him sleep until the end credits rolled- credits he knew were incredibly loud, and thus would cover up any yelp the Archivist emitted upon waking. </p><p> </p><p>Both were terrible choices. If Elias had his way Jon would have collapsed back in the Archives and avoided this mess entirely. He would also have the added bonus of being able to scold him later- a win-win, certainly. But alas, it was not meant to be. He sacrificed his pride and let the man continue to sleep on his shoulder, tensing as much as he could to keep Jon from slipping further down into a more embarrassing position. The added irony of the subject on the screen- <em>Unwanted Workplace Advances</em>- was not lost on him.</p><p> </p><p>At least the man was having unpleasant dreams. He contented himself with watching the Archivist flit across his nightmares, running from worms and spiders and whatever other horrors his mind conjured. It was much more entertaining than the video on the screen.</p><p> </p><p>And then the credits rolled. A few seconds before they began, Elias placed a firm hand on Jon’s shoulder and shook him once, hard. Just in time, the outdated, cheesy music blasted from the speakers and nicely covered his Archivist's shriek of terror and subsequent heavy breathing as his eyes shot open, panicked. No one was the wiser to that little display. </p><p> </p><p>His hand turned light, friendly. Just a boss showing concern for an unwell employee. “Jon, are you alright?” he asked, schooling his face into a parental sort of worry. That always seemed to work well with Jon- he was much more apt to be agreeable when the authority figure in question made it personal. “Do you need to go home?”</p><p> </p><p>His eyes could barely focus as everyone else in the room stood up, yawning and stretching and milling about. “I-yes, I think I just need to lie down.” Elias nodded in faux-concern, helping the man to his feet.</p><p> </p><p>Jon didn’t say a word as he walked him past the front door and into the Archives. He knew he had work to do.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jon was in the way.</p><p> </p><p>This was not a sentence Martin Blackwood had ever thought before. Even when Jon was <em>technically</em> in the way, he wasn’t, not really. Wherever Jon was, was wherever Jon needed to be. Whether it was standing in front of Martin when he needed to get to the break room, or blocking the water cooler as he lectured Tim about ‘workplace standards,’ Martin wasn’t going to ask him to move. Fighting with the man was absolutely exhausting and a lesson in futility.</p><p> </p><p>But Jon was <em>literally</em> in his way. As in if he didn’t move, Martin would not be able to do his job for the rest of the day. </p><p> </p><p>The man was curled on top of a box of files, the exact box of files that Martin needed to access. He wasn’t moving- Martin had thought at first that he was dead, but his slow, even breaths disproved that. Why would he choose this spot to take a nap? It couldn’t be comfortable- his back was hunched and his bad leg stuck out at an awkward angle. His arms were sprawled over the box as if guarding it. Sasha had told him a few stories from their research days, but he had never seen the man asleep over anything but his desk. Jon was looking far too vulnerable these days, and Martin didn’t know what to do with that.</p><p> </p><p>“Jon?” he tried quietly. The man didn’t stir. Figures. He wanted to reach out and shake him awake, but his wounds were barely healed and kept opening up, probably from his nighttime escapades. He didn’t want to be the cause of more of Jon’s pain. So he stood there awkwardly, shifting from side to side as his boss continued his slumber.</p><p> </p><p>“Something wrong?” Martin jumped at the sound of Tim’s voice- Jon did not. He was leaning in the doorway, looking almost as tired as Jon and definitely in need of a nap as well. He recovered a bit better, having taken every day allotted to him. But that didn’t mean he was back at peak performance. Tim followed his gaze to the floor and rolled his eyes upon seeing Jon asleep. ‘Really?” Tim was very irritated these days. Martin didn’t blame him.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t know what to do!” he whispered back, though he probably didn’t need to keep his voice down. “I don’t want to hurt him, but I need that box-”</p><p> </p><p>“Just move him,” Tim replied unkindly, making his way over. “He won’t wake up, he’s a very heavy sleeper, honest.” He reached out a hand to grab Jon’s shoulder but Martin stopped him.</p><p> </p><p>“N-No!” he stuttered forcefully, well aware of Tim’s attitude towards Jon these days. “I’ll just, I can wait, I guess-”</p><p> </p><p>“You said he was in your way.” With a wince Tim crouched down, placing an arm around Jon’s waist and hoisting him over his shoulder in one smooth, practiced move. “See?” he said, also whispering. “Not a peep.” It was true, Jon hadn’t stirred one bit. It was also very concerning. He watched as Tim slowly made his way across the room to the cot, placing Jon in bed with an infinite care he didn’t think the man capable of. Like hands at a piano remembering a well-practiced tune, Tim’s body played out a gentleness he no longer felt, not anymore. He even placed a blanket over Jon, pausing for a moment to look down at him. Martin couldn’t see the look on his face and couldn’t guess at what it was. </p><p> </p><p>“There.” He turned around and abruptly exited the room, not sparing another glance at either of them. When Martin looks back at this moment, he’ll wonder if that’s the last kindness Tim ever offered Jon, and how sad it was that he wasn’t even awake to see it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A year later and Martin finds himself standing over Jon, watching him sleep. He is curled around a tape recorder. The light is on, it’s recording. For what end, Martin does not know.</p><p> </p><p>He slips an arm around Jon’s waist like he saw Tim once do. Jon shivers- Martin is very cold these days, so he doesn’t fault him. He deposits him in the cot he knows so well- he will be safe here. Warm. Basira is here, and Melanie- they’ll look out for him, in their own way. He pauses, looking down at the man in the bed. He is alive, but Martin couldn’t tell you if he is breathing.</p><p> </p><p>He does not visit the Archives again.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey look, I'm back on my whumptober shit. There are maybe three or four more of these I'll have posted on their respective days before the month is up, and a ton more on the back burner that I have to edit and eventually post, if you aren't already sick of me.</p><p>Anyway, have a sleepy archivist. Would like to see your comments- I've had a rather bad week and they make me quite happy. You can reach me @voiceless-terror on tumblr for asks and prompts.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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